


Early in the Morning

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: "Thomas awakens with warm sun on his face, and an erection pressing into his back.This is surprising on several fronts. He normally closes the curtains before going to bed, for one thing. For another, it has been so long since he felt another man's passion, he can scarcely recognize it for what it is. Thirdly, and most astonishing, Thomas was quite definitely alone when he went to sleep."
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 10
Kudos: 155
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019), janky franky's frosty fun time 2k19





	Early in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely inspired by the sea shanty "What Do We Do With a Drunken Sailor?" I had always believed this question to be rhetorical, but apparently there are a number of things one can do with a drunken sailor, one of which is "put him in bed with the captain's daughter." 
> 
> For the Bingo square "poorly timed confession" and a late entry for FrostyFuntime's "two to a sack."

Edward has grown into the habit, these past few weeks, of shutting his eyes immediately upon awakening. Feigning sleep, he allows himself another few moments rest before rising. 

It's self-indulgent. Still, Edward takes comfort in these moments. He uses them to imagine he's tucked in a wide feather bed, with silken sheets and sumptuous pillows, rather than in a sack on the hard, frozen ground. To imagine that Thomas, who is always pressed against him, is there by choice, his closeness an expression of love rather than merely an instinctual seeking of warmth. To imagine they might spend hours lazing in comfort, talking of everything and nothing, before taking slow, leisurely pleasure in one another.

In actual fact, Thomas' grasp on reality is too feeble for any type of meaningful conversation, and Edward is so exhausted and ill-fed, he can't raise a cockstand even with Thomas' backside against his groin. 

That's fortunate, he supposes. Otherwise, he would feel even more guilty about their sleeping arrangements. As it is, Edward hates himself for breathing deeply of Thomas' hair, savouring the smell that lies beneath the sickness and the despair. The smell which he used to discreetly relish whenever Thomas—Mr. Jopson, then—poured him a drink at dinner or squeezed past him in the ship's narrow passageways. The smell of Thomas himself. 

“Hm.” Thomas murmurs. He seems calm, even happy. These are not states which the poor man enjoys often. He puts his hand over Edward's, where it rests atop Thomas' nearly concave stomach, and interlaces their fingers. Edward opens his eyes, and wonders where Thomas thinks he is. Who he thinks Edward might be. 

Sunlight filters into the tent, lending a yellowish tint to their canvas home. Edward will have to get up. As much as he would like to hide forever, he has to face the new day. He needs to see where they stand this morning. Needs, most likely, to take stock of how many men died overnight. Needs to make a plan, even if the plan is just more walking, more dying. It's his duty, and Edward will carry it out until the day he himself ranks among the dead. 

Edward squeezes the hand in his lightly. Thomas clutches back. “Good morning,” Edward says. “Are you ready for your breakfast?” 

It's a toss up whether Thomas will answer or not, and whether his answer will be coherent if he does. To Edward's surprise, Thomas turns in his arms until he faces Edward. “Edward.” There's a spark of recognition in his eyes Edward hasn't seen in a long time. “I dreamed of you.” 

“Did you?” Edward forces a smile, for Thomas' sake. Of all the cruelties they've suffered, this ranks among the worst. That Thomas, the most intelligent among them, should lose his faculties slowly but steadily is painful to witness. More painful still, he assumes, to experience, although perhaps Thomas himself is not conscious of the way he is changing. Edward hopes that is the case. “Was it a nice dream?”

The look in Thomas' eyes shifts. Edward can't put a name to it. It's not the blank stare he often suffers, he knows that much. “Very nice,” Thomas says. His gaze flicks from Edward's eyes to his unkempt beard to his no doubt frightful hair. He looks surprised, as though seeing it for the first time. Edward wonders if Thomas really is back, and for how long he will remain. 

“Thomas...” Edward begins. He's not sure how to continue. He is not permitted the chance, in any case. Thomas leans in, closing the scant distance between them, and kisses him. 

It's so soft, so gentle and sweet, that something within Edward breaks. 

“I love you,” Edward murmurs when Thomas pulls back, just a little, his cracked lips lingering against Edward's. Edward's voice trembles, but his words have never been more sure. Lest Thomas misinterpret his meaning, he adds, “Ardently, Thomas. I have for years.” No harm in admitting it now, he supposes, not when they'll all be dead soon enough. 

“My darling Edward.” Thomas raises a hand from the sack. He strokes Edward's beard, burying his fingers in the overlong hair. “You should have said something sooner.” 

Perhaps. He'd certainly wanted to. And, he must admit, there were times he thought Thomas might welcome such a declaration. Occasions on which he caught Thomas staring at him in the wardroom or the great cabin, only to have him jerk his gaze quickly away, his cheeks reddening in a most fetching manner. 

They grew closer, too, during the captain's confinement. Even though he had his own troubles, and Captain Crozier's, to deal with, Thomas proved an invaluable help for Edward as he struggled with his new, unexpected captaincy. Thomas was always so unflappable, while Edward was prone to panic. So steady, while Edward tended to waver. Thomas should have been the acting captain, chain of command be damned. Edward was happier than anybody when Thomas was named third lieutenant. It was a first step, he hoped, on the path to the man finally getting his due. But all Thomas had gotten was ill. 

There's a lot more Edward wishes to say to Thomas, but the moment for it passed a long time ago, if it ever existed. Instead, he pulls Thomas into his arms, burying his face against Thomas' neck. Thomas does the same, moving as close as possible, pushing one leg between Edward's in the sleep sack. He wraps his arms around Edward and holds him, the way Edward is holding Thomas. Close, tight. Showing him with his actions everything that is too big, too deep to express with words. 

Whether they are there for minutes or hours, Edward does not know. He knows that, while his body remains unresponsive, his heart is light for the first time in as long as he can remember. He hears this same lightness reflected in Le Vesconte's voice when the lieutenant flings open their tent flap and cries, “Get up! Come on, hurry! We're saved!” 

***

Thomas awakens with warm sun on his face, and an erection pressing into his back. 

This is surprising on several fronts. He normally closes the curtains before going to bed, for one thing. For another, it has been so long since he felt another man's passion, he can scarcely recognize it for what it is. Thirdly, and most astonishing, Thomas was quite definitely alone when he went to sleep.

Removing a heavy forearm from across his waist, Thomas turns to face his unexpected companion. The beautiful face of Commander Little lies on the pillow beside him, a lock of hair falling artfully across his forehead, his lovely long lashes resting against his cheeks. 

A sigh escapes Thomas' lips. He doesn't remember much about their last days in the Arctic, but he does remember sharing a bedroll with the commander. Edward, Thomas called him then. As silly as it sounds, he never felt safer than he did there, in Edward's warm embrace. It was an embrace he'd longed for almost since they met. 

Thomas was no stranger to lusting after men, particularly officers. He never cared to examine too closely his desire for strong men with a commanding presence, but he can't deny they set him aflame like no one else. He never acted on these desires, of course. And they were just that, purely physical desires, until he encountered the then-Lieutenant Little. 

As the shock recedes, Thomas' fingers ache to stroke Edward's hair, his head yearns to rest on Edward's chest. He restrains himself. Curiosity strikes. A glance beneath the bedclothes informs Thomas that, while he himself is wearing his modest nightshirt, his bedmate is dressed only in his linens. 

Thomas' eyes could easily spend hours roaming over Edward's exquisite body. They are particularly interested in the thick line of hair running from his broad, muscled chest down his stomach and disappearing beneath the waistband of his indecently bulging drawers. Reluctantly, Thomas forces his gaze up, and firmly replaces the blankets. 

Another of Thomas' few abiding memories of that time is their final conversation in the bedroll, the morning rescue arrived. He remembers realizing he couldn't die—didn't _want_ to die— without feeling Edward's lips against his own, just once. He remembers Edward speaking the words Thomas had wished to hear practically since they left port. _I love you. Ardently, Thomas. I have for years._ It felt like a dream.

There have been times, in the nearly two years that have passed since that morning, he's wondered if it was one. Not that he expected Edward to immediately renew his declarations. Thomas was very ill. The voyage home was arduous, first overland and then on a too-full ship, where there was even less privacy than usual. Still, Edward was often by his side, enquiring after his health and ensuring he was as comfortable as possible. If Thomas missed Edward's embrace, he was well enough not to mention it. 

Once they arrived back in England, Edward and the captain and Commander Fitzjames were wrapped up in their court martial, whilst Thomas continued to fight an uphill battle to regain his health. It didn't help his convalescence, he was sure, that he was furious at the Admiralty for daring to treat Edward and the others with such disdain. 

“It's just a formality,” Captain Crozier assured him. “Nothing to worry about.” Thomas did worry. He worried, as well, that while the captain was a regular visitor to the Naval hospital Thomas was calling home, Edward didn't come. 

As it turned out, the court martial was more than a formality, but the Admiralty weren't as foolish as Thomas feared. The mutineers were punished accordingly. Thomas could rouse no sympathy for men who'd made their way home only to be hanged on English soil. Not after what they had done. 

Captain Crozier was shuffled into respectable retirement, which suited him eminently. Captain Fitzjames was officially promoted, although it was doubtful his health would ever allow him back to sea. Edward was also promoted, or rather he was permitted to keep the promotion he'd been awarded whilst they were frozen in the ice. It seemed likely he would be awarded a ship at some point. Lieutenant Thomas Jopson—for, thanks to the captains, he was also allowed to keep his promotion, with just as little chance of returning to sea as either of them—would have liked to congratulate the commander in person, but still, Edward did not make his presence felt. 

When Thomas was at last released from the hospital, Captain Crozier took him in. “It's the least I can do,” he said, when Thomas expressed his guilt at this imposition. “You can stay as long as you wish. I rather like the company.” This could not possibly be true. Crozier did not want for houseguests. Fitzjames visited nearly daily, and often stayed overnight. Miss Cracroft, too, called on occasion, although when Thomas asked, with all his stewardly subtlety, about the possibility of an upcoming wedding, Crozier laughed.

“Absence may make the heart grow fonder, my boy, but it's just as likely to make the ship sail on.” Thomas wasn't quite sure what that meant. Still, as long as the captain wasn't unhappy about it, Thomas was quite pleased he and Miss Cracroft were not planning to marry. It would have been awkward, the three of them in the house, and Thomas didn't know where else he might go. 

Conspicuous by his continued nonappearance was Edward. 

“Has Commander Little taken a commission?” Thomas asked, one morning over breakfast. 

“I have not heard so,” the captain replied. 

Thomas stared at his eggs. “What,” he went on, before he lost his nerve, “of a wife?” 

It seemed a long moment before the captain answered. “No word of such a thing,” he said, at last. Before he could continue, if he indeed had intended to, Captain Fitzjames once again bustled in. Thomas retired to his room, leaving the two captains to eat together. If he'd had the courage, Thomas would have asked the captain for Edward's address, so that he might write to him himself. But Thomas was too afraid of being ignored by the Commander—or, worse yet, of receiving a distant, formal reply—to do that. _Absence makes the ship sail on_ , Captain Crozier had said. Perhaps that was how things were between him and Edward. 

Or perhaps not.

The sun shines brightly on Edward's sleeping face. It illuminates his freckles, sweet little dots that sprung up on the shale, as well, after being hidden in the darkness for so long. There are lines, too. Scars that serve as reminders of what they went through. They all have them, somewhere.

As Thomas gazes, Edward stirs. Thomas forces his nascent discomfort aside and puts a smile on his face.

“Good morning,” he says, the way Edward had that final day. Edward blinks his eyes open. “Are you ready for your breakfast?” 

He hopes Edward understands the reference. He doesn't appear to understand much. For a long moment, he stares, eyes like dinner plates. Then he jerks upright, clutching the blankets to his chest like a maid. “Thomas.” 

“It is,” Thomas replies. He swallows, throat suddenly dry. “Hello. Again.”

Edward's visit, when it finally happened, took Thomas completely by surprise. 

Thomas' leg had been aching of late, something which he would have easily brushed off in the past, but which these days seemed to all but incapacitate him. He declined an offer to go for a walk with the two captains. It was mere politeness that spurred the invitation, he knew. Instead, he sat before the fire, wallowing in self-pity, until he heard the doorbell chime. He assumed the footman would answer it, but, a moment later, the sound came again. When the bell rang a third time, Thomas could no longer suppress his deep-rooted instincts. He stood as straight as he could manage, took up his cane, and went to answer the door himself. 

Edward was clearly not expecting to see him. This was fair, given that the last person Thomas expected on the doorstep was Edward. 

“Ah, good...good afternoon.” Edward cleared his throat, after a double-take Thomas would have called melodramatic, if Edward were the kind of man to deal in dramatics. “You look, ah, well.” 

A lie, but a kind one. “As do you.” That was the truth. Edward had kept his beard, albeit a tamer, more gentlemanly version. He was not in uniform, but rather in a smart blue waistcoat and jacket of a cut and quality Thomas quite envied. 

He envied as well Edward's healthy glow, the pinkness in his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes. Even after nearly two years, the face Thomas saw in the mirror was sallow, his hair dull and flat. Against all odds, he had come back from the very brink of death. Vanity seemed like ingratitude, but Thomas still missed the way he used to look.

If Edward missed it, too, he gave no sign. Belatedly, Thomas stepped back, to allow him off the doorstep and into the house. Edward hesitated, then stepped inside. 

“Captain Crozier, ah, invited me to dine this evening. He did not tell me you were here.”

“I'm sorry if my presence is a disappointment.” It was a peevish, pettish reply. Thomas didn't regret it.

“No! No, not that. Not at all.” Edward ran a hand through his hair, disarranging it. “I'm extraordinarily pleased to see you, Thomas.” 

Thomas couldn't resist. He put his arms around Edward, embracing him the way he'd embraced Le Vesconte and Hodgson and the other men when he'd seen them again. What they'd been through together had made them brothers for life. Edward was his brother, too, although Thomas very much wished it was more than that. 

Gratifyingly,there was no hesitation on Edward's part. He wrapped his arms around Thomas and held on tightly. Thomas could have gladly stood there forever, but the footman arrived, full of apologies and offers of tea, and Thomas led Edward into the drawing room. 

He and Edward kept their talk small, speaking of Thomas' health (improving too slowly for his liking) and Edward's career (no commission on the horizon yet, but he hoped to get one in the new year.) Captain Crozier and Captain Fitzjames returned, seemingly unsurprised to see Edward. This, along with Edward's mention he had been invited for dinner by Captain Crozier himself, irritated Thomas a little. The house was Crozier's. Thomas was a guest. The captain was under no obligation to consult him, or even inform Thomas of his plans, but given he'd asked so specifically about Edward, Thomas would have thought the captain might have mentioned this particular invitation. 

For all that, the evening was a pleasant one. Thomas' stomach could not abide rich food, or overmuch of it. He noticed Edward's eyes on his meagre dinner plate, but Edward said nothing. Edward himself ate heartily, and seeing it renewed the joy in Thomas. It reminded him of the good days on ship, when food was plentiful, and he would quietly ensure Edward received the lion's portion of any meal, along with an extra helping of whatever they had for dessert.

Captain Fitzjames seemed unusually eager to drink this evening, pressing a glass on Edward every time he poured one for himself. Edward, as a polite guest, took them all. Captain Crozier, of course, abstained, as did Thomas. Those difficult weeks they'd spent together aboard _Terror_ had eliminated Thomas' desire to drink just as surely as it had the captain's. 

Thomas remained in their company as long as possible, smoking cigarettes in the drawing room while the others enjoyed their pipes. Finally, Thomas' eyelids began to droop. Another residual effect of the damn illness. Before, Thomas could put his captain to bed after midnight, and be up by first watch to begin the preparations for breakfast. Now, he often slept like a stone for twelve hours straight, and still ended up yawning into his supper like a child. 

“I must take my leave,” Thomas said at last, regretfully. It was that, or risk falling asleep where he sat. He stood, and immediately stumbled. It happened on occasion, a combination of weakness in his legs and disobedience in his brain. Edward was up in a flash, rushing to Thomas' side. 

“Lean on me, Thomas.” His strong arm went about Thomas' waist. 

Thomas wasn't too proud to do so. Ignoring the look he saw passing between the captains, he bade them good-night and put his own arm around Edward's wide shoulders. 

They hobbled in that ungainly position until they reached the bottom of the staircase. “I take the stairs slowly,” he warned Edward, transferring his weight to the cane. 

“Please allow me to help you.” Before he knew what was happening, Edward had plucked the cane from his grasp and swept Thomas up in his arms, like a bride. He grunted beneath the weight—Thomas was thin, to be sure, although no longer a skeleton—but held fast. “Is this all right?” 

Thomas' heart was beating too fast for him to make any reply more coherent than a strangled, “If you have no complaint.” 

He expected Edward to set him down when they reached the top of the stairs. Instead, Edward said, “Which room is yours?” 

“The last one on the left.” 

Edward carried him the length of the hall, depositing him gently when they were at Thomas' door. At once, Thomas missed his strength, and even more, his warmth. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?” 

_Help me remove my clothing._ Thomas couldn't ask it, even in jest. Edward had been beyond gentlemanly all evening, yet nothing in his behaviour indicated he remembered what he'd said in the tent, let alone that he still felt anything of the sort. And Thomas himself was far from the man Edward had known then. 

“It was lovely to see you again,” Thomas said, instead, polite as always. 

“Yes.” Edward licked his lips. “I thought perhaps...perhaps I might return and visit you another time. And the captain, of course. With his permission. And yours. Naturally.” He slurred a little on the last word, the first evidence of how much he'd had to drink. 

“I would welcome it.” He smiled. Edward nodded, for much longer than usual. “Good night,” Thomas said, finally. Somebody had to.

“Good night, Thomas.” Edward didn't move to go, but nor did he say or do anything else. So Thomas let himself into his room and gently closed the door behind him. Exhausted, he changed quickly and got into bed without even drawing the curtains, not knowing when, or if, he would ever see Edward again. 

As it turned out, he didn't have to wait long at all. 

Edward clearly did not expect to wake up in Thomas' bed. 

“I'm sorry.” He sounds as miserable as he ever did on the ice, as if he has committed an unforgivable sin. Thomas supposes it would be unsporting to mention the erection. Sadly, it seems to have wilted upon Edward's awakening. “I can't think how I arrived here.”

Thomas can. At once, he pictures the scenario quite clearly. Edward was drunk; Crozier offered to let him spend the night. The second spare room, the one not occupied by Captain Fitzjames on a near-permanent basis, lies across the hall from Thomas' room. It's a simple mistake to make.

“I beg your forgiveness,” Edward goes on. Half-naked as he is, the display would be comical, but for the wretched look on his face. “Please, Thomas. I've committed an egregious transgression, but...”

A flash of irritation passes through Thomas. Edward always enjoyed self-recrimination, but does he truly believe this act was that heinous?

“It's nothing we haven't done before,” Thomas reminds him. “Quite openly, in fact.” They had been slightly more clothed, it was true, but nobody had batted an eye at the thought of he and Edward sharing a bedroll in the Arctic. 

“That was different.” 

“Because we were at the end of the world?” 

“Because we thought we were dying.” 

The words hit Thomas like a slap to the face. Was that it, then? Edward hadn't meant what he said after all? Or, if he did, he thought of his feelings for Thomas as something shameful, and it had been some sort of deathbed confession, designed so Edward could exorcise the evilness of loving Thomas and assure his ascension to Heaven? 

“I don't mean.” Edward continues, then stops, as if that is a sentence in itself. 

Thomas swallows. “Perhaps,” he says, “we ought to speak plainly. Once and for all.” Edward nods but naturally, says nothing. Thomas will have to take the lead. 

There's plenty he could say. _I love you. I need you. Why didn't you come to me?_ And, for good measure, _I consider you to be the handsomest man I've ever seen._ He tries to find a place to start, a string to pull which will unravel this mess between them and allow them to inspect it properly. Edward beats him to it. His voice low, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall, he says, “I would never expect you to honour anything you said in that place.”

“Nor I you.” As much as it breaks Thomas' heart to say it. 

A pause. Then, a moment before Thomas loses all hope, Edward says, “I only ever spoke the truth.” Still, his eyes avoid Thomas' gaze, but he speaks as strongly and decisively as he ever did issuing an order aboard _Terror_. 

“So did I, Edward!” 

“You were so ill.”

“I have yet to completely recover.” But his mind is as clear as it's ever been. “That doesn't mean I didn't know what I was doing. That I don't know what I'm doing now.” 

“What are you doing?” Edward's beautiful eyes have something in them. Love, maybe. Hope, certainly. It's enough for Thomas to take the risk. After all, it's not the first time he's done it. 

Kissing Edward now is not like it was then. Edward is right. In the tent, on the edge of death, desperation coloured everything they did. Now, they have more time. And fewer clothes. 

Up there, where everybody was perpetually encased in layers and overcoats and slops, Thomas imagined more often than he is prepared to admit what Edward might be like beneath them. How his warm skin and his thick hair and his strong muscles would feel to Thomas' hands, if there were nothing to impede his touch. The reality is better than any dream. 

Before long, twirling tongues come into play. Thomas is thrilled when Edward is the one to nudge him back onto his pillows, to lie down beside him, to stroke his face and to kiss his cheeks and to push the hair back from Thomas' forehead. 

“I do not wish to hurt you.” His voice is quiet, a whisper in Thomas' ear. He punctuates it with a soft kiss to the neck, which nearly undoes Thomas entirely. 

“You could do no such thing.” Unless. “Say you won't leave me again.” That, he couldn't bear. 

“I'm not a fool,” Edward replies. Something resembling a smile is beginning to find its way onto his features. “Not twice, at least.” Thomas laughs, in surprise and in impossible, incredible joy, as Edward slips a warm hand beneath his nightshirt. 

***

Francis has been awake for close to two hours, enjoying the decadence of a morning book in bed, when James stirs beside him. 

“Dear God.” As Francis watches, he struggles to sit up, coughing like an old consumptive. The bedclothes fall to his waist, offering Francis a view of James' bare chest, scars and all. It's a common sight these days, but one that is no less beloved for its frequency. “How much did I drink last night?”

“Too much, my love,” Francis replies. Carefully, he marks his place in the dreary novel. Adventure stories, he's fond of saying, hold no appeal for him now that he's lived the ultimate adventure. Privately, he thinks the same of romances. “But it was a noble deed. You're a hero, really. I'm sure Thomas and Edward appreciate your sacrifice. I certainly do.”

James looks at him. His hair is in extreme disarray. It's quite adorable, not that he would tell James that. Francis loves him too much to do that to the poor man. “Edward. Oh, yes.” Recollection dawns. “Did our plan come off?” 

“Impeccably.” Francis is no matchmaker, but nor does he possess the infinite patience required to bear Thomas' lovesickness and sighing and “subtle questions” about Edward, questions echoed just as unsubtly in Edward's regular correspondence to Francis. It was clever James, of course, who came up with an idea to solve both problems. 

“Have you heard anything?”

“Not a peep since we pushed him into Thomas' room and told him to sleep it off.” It is now mid-morning. Francis is taking that as a victory. 

“Huh.” James smiles. “Jolly good for us, then.” 

“Indeed.” Francis hesitates. “I know your head must feel rotten, old love, but if our guests are entertaining themselves this morning...” He lets the suggestion hang. Even after all this time, he feels awkward, almost shy, about propositioning James outright. Despite the fact James, by virtue of his presence in Francis' bed nearly every night, has made his position on the subject more than obvious.

“I need a piss and a cup of coffee.” James swings his lovely long legs over the side of the bed. “Then, Captain Crozier, I am entirely at your disposal.” He kisses Francis quickly, a peck on the cheek, and takes up his dressing gown from its hook. 

“I await you eagerly.” 

Francis takes up his dull book again, sits back against his pillows, and finds himself whistling an old sailing tune as he waits for James to return.


End file.
